Lovers By Default
by Rei Nokato
Summary: Still Life. GustavxMilena. Set a while after they settled in Chicago. It would've been difficult for them to carry on from the past like they did.


Set a while after they settled in Chicago. It would've been difficult for the both of them to carry on from the past like they did.

**DISCLAIMER**: Don't own anyone, not making money by writing this.

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One would think a man with memories of the worst atrocity would talk in his sleep, or breathe unevenly, or stir unexpectedly to flee from nightmares. One would think he would not lie stationary at night, let alone be able to doze, or that he would descend into it, but only slightly. If noise resounded from the kitchen, I would assume it was him; pacing, murmuring, wiping the benches clean like he used to almost every day. If a shadow were to fall across me, I wouldn't be alarmed, as I discerned it was him simply watching me take breaths, blink, smile, frown; show signs that I was animate and out of harm's way and there to stay. If an engine happened to start at an hour of a new morning, I wouldn't wonder who it was with the intention of driving around at such a ridiculous time as I would stick an arm over his section of the mattress to find rumpled sheets and know he _needed_ to drive around.

Since buying this house, he has been different. No longer does he make it apparent he's reliving it. Maybe he doesn't relive it anymore. Maybe he never did. When he confided in me his gift of clairvoyance, it somehow didn't surprise me as much as one would think; at first impression, he seemed a haunted man. A man who tried so hard but just couldn't control the pull that tugged him into cases. Now I know it was his incurable curse of being a visionary that was partly responsible for how obsessed he became with the Prague case.

And the effervescent degree of his qualms.

I remember the intensity, the ardor when we made love one night. He had sat up an hour later, laced an arm about the back of my neck and cried into my shoulder.

_Ida… Ida…_

I realised soon after that he had been asleep. The following day, I'd wanted to cry too. I never liked to do so in front of him, though. I was so afraid, so _terrified_ that to see me in a broken state would remind him of her. And that was something I couldn't risk. I believe he never knew he had done it. I let it rest.

But now, in times where he's outgrown the habit of occupying himself every second of the day lest the chance he may lapse into fatal depression, I mentally slap myself for wishing it had stayed that way. At least _then_ I had an indication of when I could hold him and when I couldn't; when the time for talking was and wasn't; what sort of comfort he sought…

We've been here for two weeks when I notice he's let his guard down. Curled up in bed, head on his shoulder, I glance at his face in time to see a scowl. Eyes widening, I shift back a bit to wait for another. There it is again. I lean to his cheek, peck it, and he inhales deeply before opening his eyes. He stares at the ceiling, gazing laterally at my inquisitive face the next moment.

"What is it?" He practically growls, sending reverberations from his chest on to my own.

I attempt to hide a smile to no avail.

He continues to stare dully at me for a few seconds. He closes his eyes again, only squinting the instant following at the clock on the bedside. After that he shuts them for good, but appears to return to slumber.

All is peaceful until I emit a gasp; the hand on my upper arm abruptly pushes me toward him, pressing me to his side.

His face is blank, so when he suddenly opens his mouth to speak I am startled.

"Do you spy on me while I sleep?" The question holds an indefinite tone between humour, suspicion and sarcasm; a spark I hadn't heard from him since Prague.

I would love to have snapped back with equal whim, but it wasn't in my nature. He was aware of it, hence the prompt tilting of his head in my direction to cast sights on me.

"I'm sorry. I suppose I worry too much," I speak nervously, gaze flickering to the haphazard curtain billowing in the wind whistling from the gap in the window. I wait for perhaps a minute, and when a reply isn't uttered I'm surprised to turn back and see him still staring at me, a slanted smile playing on his lips.

"What?" I say on impulse, feeling belittled.

"No one should have to put up with me like you do." I let the diminutive declaration slide, because it usually comes in contact with "I'm sorry" a trice anon.

A lot of conversations we have terminate on that note.

"No," I whisper, arm stretching languorously athwart his abdomen, "I'm fine. You've been acting differently… _sleeping_ differently as of late." When I pause to heed input and don't catch any, I plough on. "It worries me if you're repressing things. I want you to talk to me about how you feel. That's how we got through it then-"

I stop when I feel him poke a loose wisp behind my ear.

"We got through it because of _you_."

I immediately insist the contrary: "My support would have been worth nil had you not chosen to accept it."

I peek at him when he doesn't respond. He has that well-known, misty façade planted as a front.

"Please, don't apologise for going through something you never asked to go through," I mumble, my hand resting on his.

The curves of his jaw twitch. He draws me upward to kiss my forehead.

And then we sink into calm; an esteemed calm, as it doesn't entail thoughts of the past, or of what our agendas for the morning are – it's about _us_. Two people invisibly linked. That's why tearing a couple like us asunder is not viable.

Perhaps owning a house adds proof to the notion we'll begin a family, reinforcing the refuge of our relationship. The unspoken recitation isn't to learn from mistakes; it's to abandon the idea of dwelling on the mistakes and what could have prevented them, as those mistakes shape our living today. In our case, marriage and bearing children will be enough to say we've moved forward.

And Ida will be here with us.

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End file.
